The Jackson crew was too busy trying to get themselves to a position of safety to realize that their commander had given his life for them.
Checking the T-54, and being satisfied that its secrets were destroyed, as per orders, Kon called his men together and they started off at the run, keen to put as much distance between them and the advancing enemy force.
The advance had been stopped dead, Moreno’s force gutted by the T-54, some anti-tank and anti-personnel grenades, a few hand-picked anti-tank infantry, and a whole lot of good luck.
The surviving doughboys had migrated westwards, dropping into the edge of Strassfeld, where they found themselves under close assault by Artem’yev’s Guardsmen.
Artem’yev’s wound was painful, but did not persuade him to leave the battlefield.
He had been flung against a brick wall when an engineer charge exploded, and his arm had snapped with a sound that exceeded that of the fierce fighting taking place for every brick and stick that was once Strassfeld.
“There, we will attack there!”
His left arm tucked in his tunic and supported by bandages, he wielded his pistol, using it to inform his assault group where he intended to attack next.
“Urrah!”
The twelve man group shouted as they sprang forwards yet again, the bodies of ten of their comrades left behind in other hotly contested places.
The man running next to Artem’yev screamed and fell, rolling over a few times before coming to a silent halt.
Another took his place.
Artem’yev tried not to notice that his men migrated to positions around him, in an effort to prolong his life and preserve him from harm.
An American soldier appeared in front of him, raising his head to take a look at the attacking Russians.
Artem’yev blew the man’s brains all over the wall behind him, immediately leaping in through the window the dead man had once occupied.
He overbalanced on landing, his broken arm unable to offer assistance, falling awkwardly, and smashing the broken limb into the chair the American had been resting on.
Artem’yev screamed in agony.
Another US soldier clattered round the corner into the area and put two rounds into the next Guardsman as he climbed through the window.
The Carbine shells didn’t kill him, and he went down, holding his shattered crotch.
One bullet did for the next man, catching him on the bridge of the nose and scrambling the brains beyond, dropping the corpse half in, half out of the window..
Recovering himself, Artem’yev put four shots into the American, throwing him back against the door frame.
More men arrived from both sides, and the small area became a seething mass of humanity, as men battled to stay alive whilst exhibiting no humanity whatsoever.
It was truly awful, but reflected Artem’yev’s plans to bring the enemy close, and was exactly the same in many other positions throughout the ruins of Strassfeld.
A man fell heavily against Artem’yev as he struggled to raise himself up, dislodging the pistol from his grasp. A second blow occurred, and the Soviet Colonel found himself face down on the floor with one man’s full weight on him, plus the majority of another man’s, as two soldiers strove to throttle the life out of each other.
Again, the agony of his broken arm overcame him, and he noisily vented the pain.
The weight lessened as another American soldier took an interest and joined in.
He pulled back the Soviet soldier’s head and ran his knife from ear to ear, bathing both his comrade and Artem’yev in blood.
“Thank… thanks… Walter…”
The rescued man coughed and gasped his way through his thanks and stood as best he could, unwittingly allowing Artem’yev to recover his Tokarev.
Two rounds smashed into the lower back of the rescued GI, three more destroyed the chest of Walter, his saviour.
Artem’yev’s intervention changed the balance in the fight, and the last armored infantryman was shot down by a burst of PPSh, leaving two survivors moaning on the floor.
An experienced corporal shot them both.
Artem’yev, deftly sliding a full magazine into his Tokarev one-handed, slapped a few shoulders and led his men on.
A grenade landed at his feet and he kicked out, making a heavy contact, and sending the deadly object back through a doorway.
It exploded, sending a shower of dust and plaster in all directions.
Some sixth sense warned Artem’yev.
“Out!”
His men threw themselves out of the windows and doors, their departure marked by the arrival of at least four more grenades.
Reduced to five men, the others had exited on the other side of the building, Artem’yev waited for the grenades to explode and then led a charge along the outside of the old stable block, turning through a damaged doorway into where he assessed the enemy grenadiers had secreted themselves.
He was spot on, and his rush found four backs turned towards him.
He shot one man between the shoulder blades, one of his men almost cutting the others in half with his PPSh.
Firing in the adjacent room caused the group to drop to the floor, using the bodies, both dead and alive, as cover.
The unmistakable sound of a PPSh announced the presence of the rest of his assault squad, and he warned his men not to be too hasty should figures appear in the entrance.
He was right, and two more of his men arrived. Eight, including himself, now mustered in what had obviously once been a tack room.
Posting two men, he permitted a moment to have a drink from canteens, but there was no time to smoke or eat.
Artem’yev could sense that the Americans were breaking.
The next position that he and his men swept into was empty, or at least occupied by men who had long since ceased to care.
US soldiers were seen scurrying between piles of rubble across the street, and a couple of Artem’yev’s men contributed a few bullets to help them on their way.
Moving outside, the small assault group ran headlong into a body of armored infantrymen intent on ‘repositioning’ to the rear.
The lead Guardsman brought up his PPSh but was beaten to the draw by his counterpart, whose grease gun wrecked the man, and splattered the hideously wounded soldier’s comrades with blood and gore.
The falling body brought Artem’yev down, and the soldier behind him followed, falling on top of his commander, winding the both of them.
The only man in the Soviet group possessing a bolt-action rifle took cool aim, and dropped the enemy soldier with a single shot, his screams loud, but brief.
Two soldiers were rolling around on the floor, each trying to gouge the eyes out of the other.
The small courtyard was suddenly too densely packed to provide room for anything of submachine gun size or above, so the two groups resorted to knives, pistol and hands to overcome their enemy.
Artem’yev, struggling to his feet, received a punch on his broken arm. The pain was extreme, and he bellowed as he crouched to protect it from more harm.
Struggling for breath he moved back, narrowly avoiding a kick aimed at sending his head into orbit.
The US soldier was off-balance, and he fell against two more soldiers struggling for supremacy. A knife quickly flashed and another GI was out of the fight, victim of one of his own and the mists of close combat.
Artem’yev struggled to wipe the tears from his eyes with his one good hand, all the time retaining a grip on the pistol in it.
His rifleman had an American soldier on the floor, his full weight pressing down on the Mosin that was placed across the man’s throat.